When the World Goes Mad
by Heta Noitio
Summary: There are things only the strongest precogs see. And there are things only the strongest precogs never talk about.


**Title:**When the World Goes Mad  
**Author:** Heta Noitio  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Genre:** apocalypse  
**Disclaimer:** Weiss Kreuz belongs to Takehito Koyasu and Project Weiss.  
**Summary:** There are things only the strongest precogs see. And there are things only the strongest precogs never talk about.

**A/N:** A while ago written fic about the end of the world, the other half of Schwarz and stars. Forgive me for all the mistakes I made, I know nothing about how something like this would do to the weather.

Dedicated to my friend Omasu Oniwabanshi who inspired me to re-write the story and make it better than the original ever was. You're dear.

xxx

**When the World Goes Mad**

xxx

There are things only the strongest precogs see. And there are things only the strongest precogs never talk about.

When the people on the outside stare at the new, huge star on the darkened sky, Schuldig is in his apartment with Crawford. They are sitting on the German's hideous, lime-green couch in front of a middle-sized fireplace and chatting about this and that, trying to keep the inevitable at bay. They talk casually about politics, old days and old friends.

They carefully avoid topics like news of hurricanes and breakers all over the world, of people gone mad because of the constant red glow. There aren't such things as 'day' and 'night' anymore, not really: the star is so close to the Earth now its light is their constant companion, making everything look like fresh blood. Temperatures have slowly been increasing, though not uncomfortably so. The water at the North Pole and the South Pole has risen since almost half of the ice has melted. There aren't many high enough places left for people but luckily Schuldig lives near the mountains.

Though they speculate whether Nagi has already left the Ural with Mamoru or are the men staying in there till the very end, they avoid talking about Farfarello who drowned, stubbornly staying in Ireland no matter what the conditions were. They avoid talking about Crawford's wife, too, about how she went missing during a fatal flood that hit New York some weeks ago.

The world has gone mad, they both think. The world has gone mad and the humanity follows hot on its heels. People have made mass suicides, gone insane with fear and unsureness. New cults have risen, cults that claim the star is God's punishment because of humans' sins and that everyone has to pray and confess to turn things better.

Schuldig and Crawford know better than that.

"I'm sorry", the redhead says suddenly when there's a short pause in the conversation and makes a small, vague gesture with his hand, still staring at the flames that eat away the logs in the fireplace. He doesn't need more words to express his sympathies to the American. They have known each other for years and can read each other easily, as they were open books. Though Schuldig knows that Crawford doesn't want to talk about it, though he knows that he himself never particularly cared the woman his friend married, he still feels sorry for the man.

Feels sorry for that he lost his wife but doesn't pity him for it.

Crawford doesn't look at him but nods a little, his right hand going unconsciously to his ring finger and his glasses flashing familiarly with light. There is a thin, silvery band with one black diamond: a little worn out but still very nice-looking. Not the most usual choice for a wedding ring but somehow fitting if one thinks what kind of a person the man wearing it is.

Seconds tick away as they sit in comfortable silence and watch the flames dancing, the warmth making their faces redden a little and the intensive brightness making their eyes water. No one is there to question the substance gliding down their faces, no one to ask if the look in their eyes is something more than just indifference, mild boredom and even milder curiosity towards the events on the outside.

No one will say, 'Gentlemen, we have another mission'. Not ever again.

Perhaps an hour passes by, perhaps a little less or a little more: it doesn't really matter to them. When they come aware of the harsh reality, slowly rising from their slumber, their faces are dry once again and their eyes are hard.

"Wine?" Crawford suggests, his voice as casual as ever but a little raspy. He's probably been thinking about many things – his house in NY, his wife and the baby she carried – but now his tone betrays no emotions.

The telepath has closed his eyes and is leaning his head on the back of the couch, his pose a little slouched. "Yeah", he drawls, "why not. We shall raise a toast…" He laughs, the sharp sound almost deafening in the room.

The precog shakes his head at the other man and gets up from the couch, stretching his muscles a little, stiff and sore from not moving at all in such a long time. He heads for a small kitchen, his footsteps soundless on a soft Burgundy carpet.

Schuldig doesn't open his eyes when he hears Crawford open a bottle of wine nor does he open them when he hears a soft, fizzing sound float from the kitchen to his ears. He just smiles crookedly, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the comfortable piece of furniture he's sitting on. Those are little things, drops in an ocean, really, but what would man be enjoying if not the little things in his life?

Crawford gives Schuldig a half-filled glass of red wine in his return - it's real crystal, he realises when he sits down - and wonders what the German has been doing all these years. He has heard of his former team mate from time to time, occasionally the telepath even had dropped by to pay a visit – but lately, before the star came, his visits had been fewer and farer between.

But he knows that if the man doesn't speak willingly, those things are meant for Schuldig only. Crawford was his leader once but now they are equal.

Everyone in this world is equal nowadays.

Schuldig eyes the glass, with no suspicion but wariness. "Are you sure this is the best way, Brad?" He smells the rich wine like a professional, pretending that he doesn't notice the odd, bitter scent of it. The red liquid is like blood, too, and for a second he plays with the idea that it really is blood, that they are some Victorian vampires who drink it from fine glasses and discuss about hunting. Then he laughs silently at the childishness of the idea, at his own mind for trying to deny the truth he already knows very well.

Crawford looks at him, one look from a man who has seen what's coming and has made his choice: one look from a man who many times has chosen to keep on moving no matter what horrors are to come but this time is opposing something so big, so huge that his human mind cannot handle it properly. But Crawford, if anyone, has seen enough to understand parts of it and those parts are something he never wishes to see again for they already haunt him in his dreams.

"Yes", he says shortly, putting emphasis on the word. "I believe it is. But free will, Schuldig… Free will is something we will always have."

The redhead raises one eyebrow at his friend's cryptic words and grins. "Shall we, then?" He doesn't wait for an answer but gets up with his glass and goes to open a door that leads to a wide porch. Because his house is located near a cliff they have a perfect view to the west and to the star. It's somehow poetic in its terrible beauty: the star is like the sun setting.

The black-haired man follows him and they stand side by side on the porch, watching the ever-growing star. At the foot of the mountain there are people everywhere, the roads are all blocked up when the panicked humans try to escape their destiny.

"Geesh", Schuldig states mildly and nods his head at the star. "It's already bigger than it was when you came, Brad."

The other man gives a soft snort of amusement. "Of course it is", he answers simply and leans on the porch rail. His dark suit is a little crumbled for he has spent many days in it, two of those days at Schuldig's place.

Schuldig casts an uncomfortable glance at the star and changes the subject swiftly, though the new one isn't so far away from the former. "What do you think comes after the end, Brad?" he asks, sounding almost anxious. "Death? Destruction? Chaos?" A familiar smirk graces his features briefly.

"There is nothing to create chaos after the end, Schuldig." Crawford turns to look at the German with his honey-brown eyes that are now hard as ice, demanding the other one to understand. "There will be no survivors. Humans will not rise again any time soon."

That unbalances the telepath a little. "No- no survivors?" he says dazedly and runs his free hand through his red mane. "Sweet Jesus… I always somehow thought there would be someone, someone to start it all over again…"

Crawford nods; he understands Schuldig's thoughts. "It will start all over again, but it will take time. Maybe as long as it took on the first time it happened. Maybe the Mother Earth needs more time to recover than that."

They fall in silence again. The star is on the sky and they lean on the porch rail, staring at it and wondering what will come after it, if anything.

xxx

The scene is same as in the beginning. The people outside are staring at the red star with fear in their eyes. Just now some of them have began to understand that there will be no escaping from the star and sit on the roofs of their cars, watching the star with terrified respect.

Two men are standing on a porch and watching the star, too. The dark-haired one looks at his watch and says something to his redheaded companion.

They raise a toast, and as far as there are people, they hear the redhead's words,

'_To the mankind!'_

and some of them even understand that the words laced with sarcasm are meant to be a reminder and are perhaps meant to echo in the mountains, echo in there for the future generations to hear and learn from.

But now they are just a toast and snide last words, none other are spoken after them. The men down their wine and return inside the house.

They know that end of the world is coming but they don't feel the need to witness it firsthand.

xxx

_fin._


End file.
